Oil of Gladness -- Third Sunday of Advent

 

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11

December 13, 2020

 

            During the peak of the lockdown last winter and spring, I realized that if I was going to be washing my hands frequently during the day, I wanted hand soaps that both cleaned well and smelled good. Essentially, I wanted aroma therapy while I washed my hands. I was using a brand that does all this and that I liked just fine. It is plant based, cleans well and it smells good, but I was running low. When I ventured out to the store to buy some more, I discovered that the store was also running low of this brand of cleaning products. Running low is an understatement. The shelves were bare of this product. So, I chose another brand that I had heard about, still plant based, still non-toxic, but I had never tried.

            Oh. My. Gosh!

            I know it is just soap, but oh my gosh. The fragrances are amazing! They have made washing my hands, perhaps not a heavenly experience, but a floating-on-a-cloud just below heaven kind of experience. I have to resist the temptation to hold my freshly washed hands up to my family and say,

“Quick! Smell my hands! Don’t they smell amazing?!”

I don’t do that, something for which my family should be grateful. But I am hooked, and I admit, a bit obsessed. We have this hand wash in the kitchen and both bathrooms. I buy the laundry detergent. I have the multi-purpose cleaner, the bathroom cleaner, and I have some dish soap ready to go. I am obsessed. I know I am. From that initial purchase of hand soap, I have tried to bring aroma therapy to every corner of our house.

And it is aroma therapy. It is. During this long, difficult, and painful year, having hand wash that smells like Iowa pine and laundry soap that smells like basil has made other things more bearable. It is aroma therapy.

When I read the words “oil of gladness” in these verses from the prophet Isaiah, I thought of aroma therapy. The oil and oils that are so often referred to in scripture would have been oils with scents. Some of the oils mentioned in scripture would be comparable to what we know as essential oils today. There would have been myrrh and frankincense and lavender oil and olive oil. If I remember my brief research into this correctly, the nard that we read about would have been similar to what we know as lemongrass. The oil and oils that are spoken of in both the Old and New Testament would have had fragrance and aroma. They would have smelled of spices or flowers and grasses or of wood and tree.

I’m not entirely sure what specific oil was being referred to in our verses today. I don’t know if it would have been frankincense or lavender or olive, but I do believe that this oil of gladness would have had a particular, defining scent. And maybe when the original audience for these words heard them, they would have known exactly what that aroma was. And when they thought about that oil, they would have been able to conjure up in their imaginations its scent, its aroma. And even if the fragrance was limited only to their imagination, it would have helped them to remember.

Remember what you may be asking. Maybe even just imagining the aroma of the oil of gladness unlocked their memories of the time before the exile, the time when they still lived and worked and harvested from their own land. Maybe it helped them remember times when they were joyful and hopeful. Perhaps the scent of the oil of gladness helped them remember who they once were and who they were called to be. Maybe it helped them remember the One to whom they belonged, the One who called them, the One who was assuring and reassuring them that they were not forgotten, not abandoned, still beloved children.

Perhaps even just the memory of the scent of the oil of gladness evoked other memories, memories of life before loss, before mourning. That memory of scent, of fragrance, may have helped them remember loved ones who had died, and friends who were far away.

If the complex mechanics of the human body is not enough to convince us that there is a God, then the power of our senses should. Think about the power of scent to unlock memories.

Close your eyes just for a moment, and try to remember a smell, a scent, a fragrance. I know it may not be easy but try.

What comes to mind? Who comes to mind?

(pause and let them try and remember)

Were you able to remember something? Were you able to remember someone?

The smell of Old Spice will be forever linked to my dad.

The aroma of vanilla and fresh butter is my mom baking for Christmas.

The sharp tang of licorice and peppermint is the Christmas candy we would make every year.

The smell of freshly sharpened pencils reminds me of first days of school.

And when I am lucky enough to hold a baby, the smell of milk reminds me of cradling my own babies.

I know that our sense of smell can bring back other memories, sad memories, traumatic memories as well. But in this moment, remember the joy in your life. Remember the smells and scents attached to those moments of joy. Focus on the oil of gladness that is promised in these verses.

For the point of these verses from the prophet is to tell the people that God is doing a great reversal. To all those in exile, take heart. The anointed One, the One who has been touched by fragrant oil, the oil of the Holy Spirit, has come. And with his coming, he brings good news to those who are oppressed, beaten down by life and those in power.

And this anointed One, this One who has been touched by fragrant oil, the oil of the Holy Spirit has come to bind up the brokenhearted, to bring back together their hearts which have been rendered in two.

This anointed One, this One touched by fragrant oil and the oil of the Holy Spirit, has come to release the prisoners, those locked behind walls and those locked in the darkness of despair.

This anointed One, this One touched by fragrant oil and the oil of the Holy Spirit, has come to proclaim the Lord’s favor and the Lord’s vengeance. This anointed one has come to bring comfort to those who mourn, to wipe away their tears, to give them a garland instead of ashes, something growing and green instead of brown dust. This anointed One has come bearing the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the aroma of life and love and joy instead of the acrid smell of death. This anointed One has come to lay the mantle of praise on their shoulders, to rest the cloak of courage upon them and replace a fearful spirit that faints within them.

These verses in Isaiah and throughout our sacred texts speak of reversal. They speak to the world turning upside down, not in chaos and tragedy, but in joy and hope. They speak of the growing Light of God shining brighter and brighter even as the darkness of the world deepens. This oil of gladness reminds us of our need for joy. For that is what today is about, this third Sunday of Advent. That is what we celebrate and remember and hope for this day, when we light the pink candle, and remember that joy bursts forth even in the darkness.

And the world does feel dark and growing darker. In this country we near the grim milestone of 300,000 deaths due to Covid-19. Protests and violence continue to erupt on the streets of our cities. People are angry and they are scared and they are grieving. But on this day, when joy is the watchword, we close our eyes and smell the oil of gladness. The oil not designed for burial but for living. We close our eyes and let the aroma surround us. We close our eyes and let the scent of this oil fill us and delight us and carry us. We let its rich aroma fill us with hope and peace and joy. God’s oil of gladness is here to give us joy. It is here to give us life. God gives us life, even as death and darkness threatens, God gives us life in this sweet, fragrant oil of gladness.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

Speak Tenderly -- Second Sunday of Advent

 

Isaiah 40:1-11

December 6, 2020

 

            I don’t remember what words I spoke to my children when they were little and they would wake in the night, scared from a nightmare, or sick or convinced that monsters hid in the shadows and dark recesses of their rooms.

I don’t remember what words I would whisper to them, when I would pick them up from their beds and hold them close. I do not remember the exact words that I would whisper into their ears as I would rock them back and forth, but I know that they were words of comfort, words that soothed and calmed. I would reassure them that I was there, that they were safe, that they were loved.

I would speak tenderly to them, I would speak tenderly to them, telling them it all right, and that the long night would soon be over. They were safe. They were loved. I was there.  

            When you’re little and you wake in the darkest hour of the nigh, and the world seems so big and frightening, you need someone to speak tenderly to you. And when you’re older, even much older, and you wake in the darkest hour of the night, and the world seems so big and frightening, you also need words of comfort and reassurance. You need someone to speak tenderly to you.

            When I read these verses from the fortieth chapter of Isaiah, I imagine them in this kind of moment –waking up in the darkest hour of their long night of exile and feeling alone, abandoned, and afraid of the world that was so big and so threatening. Then into the darkness comes these words,

            “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.”

            The people need these words of comfort. They need, desperately need, God to speak tenderly to them once more. These people, the Israelites, had gone from the wilderness to prosperity to exile. They were the chosen people yet even as God had chosen them, God had also let them feel the full wages of their sins. God had not prevented them from suffering the consequences of their actions. So, these words, these tender words were spoken to a people long exiled from their homes and homeland. They were announced to people who had lived generations as strangers in a strange land. These words were told to those who may have no longer believed that there was any comfort to be had.

Perhaps, once, they felt cherished by God, truly chosen by God, but they had forgotten what being chosen meant and what it required of them. These first verses were spoken to those who were lost and who believed they would never be found again.   

            "Comfort, O comfort my people."

What wondrous and incredible news to hear! There is comfort to be had. There is reassurance to be found. They were not alone after all. They were not forgotten or abandoned by their Maker. These words of comfort were astonishing to hear, especially as they follow 39 chapters that mainly speak words of judgment and condemnation for the ways the people turned from the Lord and neglected the least of those in their midst. Certainly, we find words of comfort, moments of hope in those 39 chapters -- I think specifically of the verses we hear around this time of year, the words from chapter 9 about the Prince of Peace. Yet even those beautiful verses are couched in judgment.

            So, the 40th chapter of Isaiah marks a significant change and turning point, not only for the relationship between God and God's people, but also in the book of Isaiah itself. Biblical scholars refer to this as Second Isaiah. This second Isaiah was most likely a different prophet writing in Isaiah's name. Regardless of who uttered them, these words of comfort must have felt like a healing balm flowing over the wounded hearts and weary souls of those people far from home.

            These words of comfort signify a new call as well. The Lord is calling his prophet not only to tell the people this news, but to herald them, to preach them. Preach to them that not only are they to be comforted, to know that their time of judgment is ending, but that everything will be changed. Even the physical landscape will be changed. Crooked roads through the desert will be made straight. Mountains will be brought low. Valleys will be lifted up. The uneven ground will be made level. The rough places will become a plain.

            Isaiah’s first response to this call is to question, as other prophets have questioned the call they were given. In response to being told to "cry out," he asks,

            "What should I cry?  All people are grass, their constancy is like a flower of the field.  The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass."

            I wonder if the prophet is asking, "What’s the point? “

What is the point of preaching these words of comfort to them? Why bother telling them any of this good news? People are no more constant than the grass or flower that blooms for a short season then fades away. They are fickle. The word of the Lord has been given to them over and over again. They have been warned, exhorted, urged, even condemned, but they never seem to learn. They just don't get it. So, what is the point of speaking these comforting words to them, Lord? Why would God even bother?

            Why bother? What’s the point?

"The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever."

Yes, the people are like grass, God responds. Yes, they are inconsistent and fickle, but I am not. They may wither, but I do not. They might fade, but my words remain. I remain. So, preach these glad tidings. Preach this good news. Tell the people, "Here is your God!"

            Here is your God.

            Here is your God. Perhaps these are the tenderest words of all. It seems to me that these four words sum up Advent, this time of waiting, this time of yearning and watching and hoping. Here is your God is the answer we have been searching for, longing for. Here is your God are the tender words we need to hear.

            When I really ponder these four words, hear them, feel them, I am overwhelmed.  Because I realize that my preparations for Advent and Christmas are often a distraction from what I should be focusing on. But this year, the distraction feels necessary. The preparations we make, here at church and at home, distract me from my worries and my fears about the larger world and my family’s place within it. The last eight months have felt like a very long night, and the decorations and the lights are a bright spot in the darkness.

            But the real light shining in the darkness comes in these four words spoken tenderly to us in our time of such great need and fear. Here is your God. Here is our God.

            Here is our God coming to dwell in our midst once again. Here is our God, right next to us, whispering words of comfort in our ears. Here is our God. And when I can focus on these words, on this truth, then I remember another truth. I think my preparations, my decorating, my baking, my gifting, my sending makes Advent and Christmas happen. But the truth is that Advent happens to us. God comes to us. God changes the landscape. God alters the course of history. God breaks in and breaks through and God comes to us. God comes to us in our darkest night. God comes to us in the midst of our fears and our worries. God comes us speaking comfort, speaking tenderly. God comes to us and renews our hope and inspires our peace. These words, “Here is your God,” was a balm to the exiles so far from home and it is a balm to us in this darkest hour.

            "Comfort, O comfort my people." "Here is your God."

            Speak tenderly to us, O God. Speak words of comfort, words of hope, words of peace. Speak tenderly and open our eyes, our minds, our hearts so that we see you, feel you, know you. Speak tenderly so that we can proclaim with joy, “Here, here is our God!”

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

In Those Days -- First Sunday of Advent

 

Mark 13:24-37

November 29, 2020

            On Thanksgiving, we were reminiscing about all sorts of things. Besides eating too much, reminiscing is what you do on a holiday like Thanksgiving. I told the story about the first time my parents left me alone in the house when they went on a trip. My dad was adamant that I would not stay alone until I was 18. I turned 18 in October. They went to Minnesota the next summer. That meant I had at least 8 months to plan the party.

            Now before you think I’m completely brazen, you need to know that my parents knew I was having a party before they’d even packed their bags. I told them. I might have said,

“I think I’m going to have a few friends in while you’re gone.”

I may not have clarified that a few meant 30 plus. But I doubt that my parents were under the illusion that I was going to have a small, quiet dinner party either. They were a little hipper than I gave them credit for. 

            As they drove away, my dad said,

            “Just don’t burn the house down.”

            I didn’t. But it was a great party.

            In fact, the house was spotless when they came home. But I was helped with this because I knew when my parents were coming home. I was prepared. I was ready. I had friends who weren’t so lucky. One friend of mine had parents who would leave her in the house alone while they went out-of-town, but they would never tell her exactly when they were coming back. They might go for a couple of days. They might leave for a week. Not telling her was supposedly a way to prevent wild parties and a trashed house. I spent a weekend with her when her parents were out of town and we cleaned everyday just in case her mom and dad pulled in unexpectedly.

 Mark 13 says that the master of the house is a lot more like my friend’s parents than mine. No one knows when he’s going to return from his journey, so stay awake. Do not drift off.  Watch. Stay conscious. Stay awake. For the master could return at any moment. No one knows.

Warnings to stay awake. Stars falling. A darkened sun and moon. Heavenly powers shaken up.  Not exactly images we normally picture at the beginning of Advent. There’s no babe lying in a manger for Mark. No cattle lowing, no shepherds being led to the child by a host of heavenly messengers. 

Instead on this first Sunday of Advent, we have what is known by Biblical scholars as Mark’s little apocalypse. This chapter begins with Jesus’ predictions about the destruction of the temple. Then Jesus and a few of the disciples – Peter, James, John and Andrew – retreat to the Mount of Olives, look out over the temple and discuss the end times.

The disciples question Jesus.

“Tell us, when will this be; and what will be the signs that all these things are about to be accomplished?”

Jesus tells them about many signs. False prophets and false messiahs. Beware those who come in his name, making claims in his name, yet in reality lead the faithful astray. Wars, nation rising up against nation. Earthquakes, famines, natural disasters.  Don’t be alarmed, these are the beginning of the birth pangs.

There will be suffering, Jesus warns them. The disciples will be forced to testify to the good news in front of councils and governments. But don’t worry, he reassures them, the Holy Spirit will speak through them. And again, there will be false prophets and false messiahs pointing the people in the wrong direction. Leading the elect astray. So, wake up! Stay awake! 

Then we come to our verses. When the end times truly arrive, cosmic signs will fill the sky. Stars, sun, moon. Then Jesus, the Son of Man, will come surrounded by clouds in his power and glory. Angels will be sent to bring the elect from every corner of heaven and earth. All this will happen in God’s time. Not even the angels or the Son himself know when the end will come.  Only God the father, and he is not telling. So, stay awake! Remain on watch, wait open-eyed for the master’s return. Because no one knows when he will come.

Apocalyptic literature and predictions about the end times, such as what is found in Daniel, the book of Revelation and this chapter in Mark, usually come out of a community that is oppressed and under siege by political, religious or military leaders. The situation in the community seems so utterly dire and desperate that their only hope is in divine intervention. No mortal means can end their suffering. Only action from God and God alone. Then their suffering will be justified. A new world will be issued in.

The word in Greek that gives us our word Apocalypse does not refer to the end of the world. When Jesus speaks about end times, he is not talking about the earth blowing up on God’s orders with nothing remaining. Apocalypse means an unveiling, a revealing. The end times that Jesus refers to is when God will be fully revealed, completely unveiled. They will see God. And when you are living in a crisis moment, when you are living with catastrophe all around you, what more do you want than to see God; to see God revealed and unveiled? What more do we want than to know that God is right here with us? Look, there is God! Can we see God? Can we finally see Him?

Can we finally see God?

Do you remember about twenty years ago at the beginning of 2020? At New Year’s I saw so many pictures of folks dressed up for Roaring 20’s parties. They were all so cute and fun. But amid all the revelry, we were hearing news stories about this strange new virus that was sweeping across Asia. It sounded concerning but it was 2020! A new decade! A new start! Whoo hoo! Then in March the world changed. Everything began to be cancelled or shut down. We cancelled in-person church services and switched without really knowing what we were doing to livestream. I say “we.” I mean “me.”

I remember dreaming about the huge party we would have when we could finally return to in-person worship. Easter didn’t happen, but Pentecost? Surely by Pentecost we would be able to come together fully, to hug and sing at the top of our lungs and joyfully celebrate the birth of the church grateful for this new life we would now have together …

Yet here we are. In person for some of us, livestream for others. We wear our masks and douse our hands in sanitizer and socially distance ourselves. When the Lord’s Supper happens next week, we will partake with our individual pack of juice and wafer. And while worship does not have to be a blow out extravaganza to be worship, there are days when the quieter nature of our worship makes me long for the singing-at-the-top-of-our-lungs worship we once shared.

And if apocalypse has its etymological roots in a word that means to unveil or reveal, then what has this pandemic revealed? In our country it has revealed disparity and inequity in resources and access. It has unveiled the isms, particularly our original sin of racism, that lurk and fester underneath the surface. It has revealed the depths of how kind and giving humans can be to one another. And it has unveiled how we can also be quite the opposite. Ultimately, the pandemic has revealed that we humans are more vulnerable and frailer than we like to believe. To quote Dr. Burger, “a relatively simple virus has brought us, humanity, a complex system, to its knees.”

Please know I am not trying to bring everybody down. I know that we all need the joy that this holiday season can bring – we need joy more than we ever have before. But in the church calendar, this is our New Year. The first Sunday of Advent is the first Sunday of the church year, and this first season is our time of waiting. But what are we waiting for? Are we waiting for Advent to be over so we can hurry up and celebrate Christmas? Or are we waiting for God to be revealed; to be unveiled once more?

And how has God chosen to reveal God’s self? In the most vulnerable way possible. God came into this world in the way of all creatures – as a baby. When that baby had grown into manhood, how did God choose to reveal God’s full glory and new life and everything? Through war and violent overthrow? No. Through death, but not just a natural dying in one’s sleep, but death on a cross. In those days, God revealed himself to the world through the birth of a baby, and through that grown up baby going to the cross. In these days, God meets us in our vulnerability with his own vulnerability. God meets us, not with a warrior’s strength but with a divine weakness. God meets us, not with oppressive power but with holy vulnerability.

So, what are we waiting for? Are we waiting for celebration? Are we waiting for the end? Or does Advent remind us that we are waiting to see God anew? Does Advent remind us that what we wait for is not the end of the world, but the end of the world as we know it, and the beginning of the world that God created from the beginning?

And what this day reminds us of is that we wait with hope. The crisis and the catastrophes all around us cannot diminish our hope. Because our hope does not lie in what we do or do not accomplish. Our hope does not lie in the world that we can make. Our hope lies in what God has done, and what God is doing, and what God will do. We wait and we watch with hope because God is revealing himself to us, everyday, every hour, every minute, so in these days we wait with hope.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.

When Did We See You? Reign of Christ Sunday

 

Matthew 25:31-46

November 22, 2020

 

            Once upon a time B.C. – before Covid – my sweet husband used to play with his good friend, Les Kerr, at the Nashville airport. For a few hours, they would sing and play their guitars and welcome people to Music City. Brent tells me that occasionally Les would tell people arriving from their flights, “Welcome to Memphis!” just to see if anyone was really listening. But most of the time their music added to the ambience and welcoming atmosphere of the airport.

            They would play at the stage just outside of the final security doors people would walk through on their way to baggage claim. So, Brent would have the opportunity to watch folks who stood outside of those doors waiting for someone to arrive. Watching these people was like watching small moments of the human drama play out.

At one of these gigs Brent saw a group of folks who were having some sort of reunion – whether it was family or friends, he did not know and couldn’t tell. A small cluster of folks had gathered to greet a woman traveler. As Brent played, he watched as their friend or family member arrived. This group of folks were talking and hugging and catching up. But there was one woman who was part of the group waiting who hung back. She was obviously nervous or anxious about seeing the woman who had just arrived. Brent told me that as he watched, the woman who had traveled to Nashville made some sort of indication to this anxious woman. Brent could not tell if she made a physical gesture to her. He could not hear if she said something to her. But whatever she did, it gave the other woman permission to approach. And when she did get closer, they both fell into each other’s arms and began to sob. Not just cry, sob. Whatever anxiety and tension there had been before was gone. They were reunited.

            This reunion made a huge impression on Brent. And even though I was not there to witness it, I feel as though I have seen it through his telling. Brent and I both like to people watch, and we both do the same thing while we watch. We wonder about the stories behind the people. We wonder about where they have been and where they might be going. We speculate about what drives them, what motivates them – or what doesn’t. We both like to think about all the human dramas, the big ones and the small ones, that may be playing out in those few seconds that a person passes through our line of vision.

            But people watching is a luxury in many ways. We don’t always have time to sit and watch others go by. Most of the time we are too caught up in our own big or small dramas to sit still for a few minutes and take notice of what’s happening around us. More often than not, we are generally too caught up in the mundanities of our everyday lives to really observe the world around us.

            And it shows.

            The passage before us today, The Judgment of the Nations, as the heading reads in my Bible, is the last story in chapter 25. Except for Epiphany and the coming of the wise men, I believe this will be the last time we deal extensively with Matthew’s gospel for another three years. But what a passage to end with!

            As soon as Jesus finishes these words, the chief priests and elders will gather at the home of the high priest, Caiaphas, and plot to kill Jesus. Jesus knows his time is coming, it’s drawing ever near, so he will not mince words.

            “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right and hand and the goats at his left. Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’”

            These righteous people, these righteous nations, that have been stationed at the right hand of the Son of Man have no idea what he’s talking about. When, they want to know. When did we see you, Lord? When was it that we saw your face? When were you right in front of us, and we took care of you? Fed you? Clothed you? Cared for you? Gave you something to drink? When have we ever visited you in prison? When did we see you, Lord? When did we see you?

            Then the Son of Man answers them,

            "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”

            Now, of course, he turns to those who are seated at his left.

            “You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.”

            And the ones on his left are equally astonished. Wait a minute?! When did we see you, Lord, hungry or thirsty? When did we see you and not welcome you or naked and not clothe you? When did we see you in prison and not visit you?! Believe us, Lord, if we had know that was you, we would have done all of the above.

            But the Son of Man says again,

            “Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to the least of these, you did not do it to me.”

            Both groups of people are astonished at Jesus’ words. They are astonished to find themselves in the group that they are in, the side of him that they are on. So, what is the difference between them? What is the difference between the sheep and the goats? Neither group of people were looking for the Lord. Neither group of folks recognized Jesus in the least of these. But the sheep took care of the least of these regardless, and the goats did not.

            Clearly, from what Jesus says, we all want to be sheep. Right? That should be the end of the sermon. We want to be sheep, and in order to be sheep, we must care for the least of these. And if we are caring for the least of these, we should be on the side of the sheep, so amen, alleluia, let’s go get lunch.

            Except … as I’ve said in these last few weeks, one thing I have realized in dealing with Mathew’s parables this year is that it is dangerous to assume. It is dangerous to assume that you know which group you’ll end up in. It is dangerous to assume that you have a lock on being a sheep. I’m not saying that as a dire warning. I’m not pointing the finger of judgment at anyone else. It has just hit home with me that I cannot assume I will be one of those wise bridesmaids or a servant willing to risk everything for the sake of the master. I cannot assume that I will automatically be a sheep. And it’s not because I don’t try to minister to the least of these. I do. We all do. But seeing Jesus in the least of these means that we have to see the face of Christ in every person that we see. We must see every person as a child of God. And I know I do not do that.

            Think about those people Brent saw in the airport. Think about that moment – of forgiveness, repentance, restoration, reconciliation, whatever it was – think about those people being Jesus. The woman who was anxious was Jesus. The woman who welcomed her into her arms was Jesus. Every person swirling past them in the crowds, they were all Jesus. They were all children of God. But how often do we take the time to notice?

            Perhaps it is noticing that lies at the heart of this passage. Perhaps it is taking the time to really look at people, really trying to see them, see past the walls and the fronts and the personas that they display for the public view. Maybe we would be more willing to help, to care, to love the least of these if we noticed them. I’m not arguing that those folks in the goat category were innocent of the charges Jesus levied against them. I wonder if maybe they would have helped even if they didn’t realize they were looking at Jesus, but they just did not notice. Maybe they would have been more like the sheep but did not look. They didn’t help because they didn’t look.

            And I’m also not saying that I believe those people who were at Jesus’ right hand earned their way into that spot. We are saved by grace alone. That is a fundamental tenet of our faith. We are saved by grace alone. But grace, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer put it, is not cheap. Grace is God seeing us, really seeing us and knowing us and loving us, even though we fail and fall short and are too often completely unworthy. So, the grace that we are shown, the love that we are given, compels us to look at others, to notice, to see Christ shining from the eyes of every person we meet. We just have to notice, and when we do notice, we must act.

            When did we you see Lord? When did we see you?

Truly I tell you, when you looked into the face of another, into the face of the least of these, and recognized me. That’s when you saw me. How did you respond? What did you do when you looked into my eyes?

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.

 

             

Risky Business

 

Matthew 25:14-30

November 15, 2020

 

            As the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis come to a close, there is a scene in the book “The Last Battle” where Aslan the great lion shows Lucy and Edmund, two of the siblings who stumbled onto Narnia in the first place, the New Narnia. The beauty of New Narnia is indescribable. It is lush and splendid, and even the individual blades of grass seem to shimmer with glory. As the lions and the humans take in this magnificent sight, they see a group of dwarves huddled together in the middle of this beautiful and lush field.

            The dwarves believe that they are actually huddled in an old, decrepit barn. They cannot, they will not see the beauty around them. Their eyes only believe what they tell them to believe, so the gloriousness of the New Narnia is lost to them.

            Lucy feels the pain of their unseeing and begs Aslan to help them. Aslan tells her that he cannot make them see. But he does try to open their eyes. With just a shake of his head and magnificent mane, a feast appears before the trolls. Plates of wonderful and sumptuous food sits before them. In their hands, the dwarves now hold goblets of perfectly aged wine.

            The dwarves begin to eat, but even this feast cannot convince them that they are in paradise rather than hell. Instead of every wonderful food, they think they are eating straw and grass and garbage. They do not drink wine. They drink stagnant water from a trough frequented only by donkeys. Aslan has no power to open their eyes or their hearts to what is really around them.

            I wonder if the third servant in today’s parable may have only seen what he wanted to see and believed what he wanted to believe – much like these dwarves.

            If you are a close reader of the passage you have already realized that I made a decision to use the word “servant” instead of “slave,” which is what is written in our text. The use of the word “slave” by Jesus is just one of the many difficulties of this parable. I know that the context Jesus lived and taught in was different than our context today. The word, “slave,” had different meanings, different connotations to that original audience than it does for us today. But the reality is that we live in this context, and the impact of the bondage of human beings in our country is still all too real. So, I am making an executive decision and using “servant” instead.

            Sadly, however, making that switch does not make dealing with this parable any easier. Often when we have heard this story, we hear it as part of a stewardship sermon. God, who must then be the man in this parable, has given us a significant number of talents. We must use them, or we risk disappointing God, and look what happened to the servant who did that.

            Yet while we associate talents with things that we are able to do, special gifts that we have been given, for example, my son Zach has a talent for the tech work of theatre and my daughter Phoebe has a talent for singing, in this parable a talent was a sum of money. A large sum of money. One talent was equivalent to what a daily wage earner might make in 15 to 20 years! That’s a lot of talent, and it is a lot of money. One commentator estimated that combined, the property owner entrusted his three servants with approximately 1.5 million dollars in today’s money! 1.5 million!

            As I said, that is a lot of money and it is also a lot of trust. It seems to me that trust lies at the heart of this passage. The man entrusts his servants with these talents. Then he goes on a long journey, with apparently no hint as to how long he will be gone, when he might return, or if he will communicate with them while he is away. So, it is up to the servants to make the most of the talents with which they were entrusted while the man is away.

            The first two do just that. No sooner than the first servant had the five talents in hand, he went and traded them and made five more. The second servant doesn’t waste any time either. He takes his two talents and trades them making two more. I’m going to assume here that the first two servants knew that what they were doing was risky. It is also quite possible that they could have lost the original talents they were given, and wound up with nothing, or worse, in debt. But the property owner entrusted them, and they seem to trust him as well.

            Then we come to our third servant. Poor guy. He does not seem to understand how much trust the man has shown by giving him this talent. He buries it. He doesn’t risk trading. He does not risk investing. He buries the talent and waits.

            After a long time, the man returns. He goes to his servants and says, “Okay, it is time to settle accounts. I entrusted you three with so much. Now what have you done with what I entrusted you?”

            The first servant gives the man the ten talents, and the man said,

            “Well done! You have been trustworthy with a few things. I will put you in charge of many things. Enter into the joy of your master.”

            The second servant came forward and gives the man his four talents. The man’s response is equally as delighted.

            “Well done! Enter into the joy of your master.”

            Then our third servant approaches. Poor guy. He hands him the one talent, which probably still had dirt clinging to it from its long time in the ground, and said,

            Master, I knew that you were a harsh man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.”

            “Oh, you knew, did you?”

            There is nothing in the text to indicate that this man was what the servant said he was. There is no secret or hidden word in Greek that reveals that but is lost in translation. So, did the servant’s belief in the man’s harshness rest in something that we are not told, or is it that the servant was so afraid of messing up and disappointing the master’s trust, that he acted out of fear. And that fear became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Not only did his fear cause him to lose his master’s trust, but it also caused the man to act in a harsh, malevolent way. And the punishment that the master meted out does seem way out of proportion to the transgression. The servant did not lose the talent. He just didn’t do anything with it. The man still got back what was his.

            But remember when I said that trust may be the crux of this passage? The man entrusted those servants with so much from the very beginning. His willingness to entrust them with this much abundance was an act of grace. The first two servants acted on that trust. They trusted in return. They took what they were given, and they made more, much more. They acted in faith. They were willing to risk everything, and their risk was rewarded. But the third servant was not willing to take that risk. The third servant could not fathom the trust that was shown in him, and he could not trust in return. He was guided by his fear, and his fear stymied him. It paralyzed him. He buried instead of trusting.

            And yes, the punishment is harsh. But the stakes at this moment in Jesus’ ministry have never been higher. I think these parables are getting tougher and tougher to hear, to read, because of where Jesus is headed and what Jesus is facing.

            Jesus is just days away from the cross. He is days away from the betrayal of Judas and the denial of Peter. He is just days away from standing before Pilate. He is days away from hearing the crowds which once shouted hosannas at his entering Jerusalem shouting instead,

            “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

            The stakes have never been higher. Jesus knows this. He will soon run out of opportunities to teach the disciples and anyone else who would hear what it means to be disciples, what it means to have the kingdom of God in their midst. His last lesson for them will rest in God’s hands.

            The punishment is harsh because Jesus needs those who will hear to really, truly hear. You have been given an abundance. You have been entrusted with more than you can possibly imagine. What will you do with that? Will you take on the risky business of discipleship and dare to take what you have been given and do even more? Or will you let fear drive you? Will you let fear motivate you to do … nothing? Will you enter into the joy, the fullness of life with me, with God, or will you be cast out?

            And as for the casting out, maybe because of the servant’s fear, he was already there. He was already cast out. He was already living where there was wailing and darkness and gnashing of teeth. He was already living in a hell of his own making. Remember those dwarves that C.S. Lewis wrote about. They could not see the beauty, the glory all around them. They could not taste the wonderful feast Aslan provided. They could not taste the food or savor the wine. It was all terrible and nothing to them, because they would not open their eyes or their hearts to see what Aslan was doing all around them.

            Do you think Jesus saw the same thing? Do you think that Jesus knew that no matter what he said, no matter what he did, there would be some who let their fear blind them and deafen them and harden their hearts?

            I think so. I believe so. The stakes were high and the price of fear was to miss out on the joy and the fullness of life that God was offering through God’s Son. Jesus told all who listened time and time again that the business of discipleship is risky. There will be a cost. But Jesus was willing to pay the greatest price, so, please, please just listen. Open your eyes. Open your minds. Open your hearts. See the glory of God all around you. See the kingdom of God right here in your presence. Step out in faith, engage in this risky, risky business of discipleship, of following and trusting God as you have been trusted, and then rejoice when you hear the words,

“Well done, good and faithful servant. Well done. Enter the joy of your God.”

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.

Neither the Day nor the Hour

 

Matthew 25:1-13

November 8, 2020

 

            I have something to admit to you. I keep thinking that the lectionary passages in these last few weeks of our church year, in these last few weeks of Matthew’s gospel, just can’t get any harder. Seriously. Every Sunday I think, surely, I have conquered the last of these tough, seemingly unfathomable passages from Matthew’s gospel. Then Matthew says,

“Oh really? Hold my scroll.”

This parable about ten bridesmaids and a delayed bridegroom just does not feel like a passage that I can find some foothold in, some small morsel that I can sink my teeth into. How can I relate these ancient and challenging words to where we are today, now? So, as I struggled with how to even get into this passage this morning, I decided that I was going to ask it – the parable – some questions. And I thought that maybe these might be the questions you would ask if you were in my shoes. So, here goes.

Question 1: where is the bride? There are 10 bridesmaids and a bridegroom, but no bride? I know that this is a kingdom parable, it says so right at the beginning. But where is the bride? Who is the bride? Who is the bride meant to be? Is the bride an allegory of the kingdom? Is she God or creation? Who is the bride?

Question 2: At what wedding is there not a specific time for the bridegroom to show up? When Brent and I planned our wedding last year, we both knew that at 4:00 pm we were heading down the aisle. This uncertainty about the bridegroom’s arrival makes me anxious.

Question 3: Why are the five “wise” bridesmaids so stingy with their oil? I have a hard time not hearing them in my head as a cross between mean girls and valley girls.

“Please give us some of your oil because our lamps are going out.”

“Like no. There will totally not be enough for you and for us. I mean if we were you, which, ew! We would go find an oil dealer and get some more. So, you better go. No, really, you better go.”

Question 4 (and final question): Why is it that the bridegroom doesn’t even recognize the other bridesmaids when they return? Be angry at them for not planning? Okay, I get that. But not to even recognize them? Shut the door, lock them out, I don’t know you?! I don’t get it.

I don’t get it, and that’s why I’m asking these questions. It isn’t to be irreverent or to make fun of the parable and the characters within it. It is to try and make some connection, cling to some inkling of understanding that might come my way if I only ask the right questions.

But I cannot ask these questions of this parable without asking questions of the larger context around it. This parable Jesus tells does not stand by itself, alone. It stands in a context of people being told to watch and to wait. In the chapter and verses before these, Jesus spoke about the end times, about the necessity for watchfulness. Jesus spoke about signs and times and things to look for. And at the end of our passage today, Jesus warned those who would listen to stay awake. Keep watch. Neither the day nor the hour of the bridegroom’s return is known, so you have to stay awake. And unlike the foolish bridesmaids you need to be prepared for the long haul.

Maybe I have been asking the wrong questions then. Maybe the question to ask is not so much about the details, but about the message that is being relayed through them. What is Jesus trying to tell people to do in this parable? What is he telling them about the kingdom? What is Jesus saying about the people’s response?

Is Jesus trying to make folks afraid, afraid they will be shut out of the kingdom? Or is he trying to make them let go of their assumptions that they will be the wise bridesmaids? Once again, I too often see myself as the “good guy” in scripture’s stories. I see myself as the one who does the right thing, the wise thing. But it is quite possible and highly probable that I am one of the foolish bridesmaids instead of one of the five who came prepared. It is highly probable that Jesus is warning me, not the person sitting next to me, to be watchful, to stay awake, and to make the necessary plans for the long haul that is waiting. It is quite possible that this is true for many of us. We have to stop assuming that when it comes to our faith and our understanding of God’s word to us that we automatically get it right. Maybe we should assume instead that when it comes to the day and the hour, we might just not get it at all. As Amos warned those who longed for the day of the Lord. It’s like a bear, a lion, and a snake, and none of them are friendly.

So, what do we need to hear in these words of Jesus? What message do we need to cling to and what lesson do we need to learn?

I believe that the underlying message of this parable is waiting. Watchfulness, preparedness, being ready is essential. If the necessity of being prepared were all that we take away from our reading of it, that would be plenty but let’s not skip over verse 5 too blithely.  

“As the bridegroom was delayed.” 

The bridegroom was delayed. They were waiting. Matthew’s gospel was written for a people who were waiting. None of the gospels were written at the exact moment of Jesus’ life.  They were written after his life, his death, and his resurrection. They were written by people for people who were waiting. The first letter to the Thessalonians, which was part of the lectionary choices for this morning, is considered the earliest of all the epistles. Paul was also writing to a people who were waiting. Matthew’s gospel was written approximately 30 years after that letter. The people who believed in Jesus, who believed he was the Son of God, who believed in his resurrection, also believed that he would return to them soon; maybe not immediately, but soon. Yet here they were, generations after the resurrection and they were still waiting. You can’t really fault the bridesmaids for falling asleep. The bridegroom was delayed. 

Here we are, some 2000 years after the resurrection and we’re still waiting. If you think about it, our faith is based on waiting. We are a waiting people living in the interim. We are living in the time between the times, waiting for the promises of God that were embodied in Jesus to come to final fruition. I am not shy about saying that I’m not an apocalyptic preacher. I don’t focus on the end times. I disagree with the popular interpretation of the rapture because I think that what passes for rapture theology is iffy theology at best. I often think that we get so caught up in looking for signs of the end times that we forget to be the people God calls us to be right now, here, in the present. 

It seems to me that this parable challenges us to think about how we wait. It challenges us to consider how our daily lives connect with what we proclaim to believe. Waiting for the bridegroom is not a mindless state of being. Waiting for the bridegroom calls us to be intentional.  It calls us to be thoughtful about what we do and how we live. Waiting is not passive. It is active.  No one knows when the bridegroom will finally arrive, so let’s assume that we are in it for the long haul. Let us wait with intention. 

What does this waiting with intention look like?  In our parable, it’s about being ready.  Again, the prophet Amos chastises the people listening to him that they are more worried about correct ritual, then about caring for the least of God’s people. They worship in name only, but their hearts are not involved. It seems to me that waiting with intention is about trying to make our daily lives match up to the faith we profess. I’m not leveling criticism at any one of us. It is really easy to say that those two things should match; it’s another thing to actually do it.  But that doesn’t exempt us from trying, from striving to make our waiting and our living sync. 

Yet living with intention and waiting with intention does not mean that we live without hope. We live with hope that the kingdom of God will come to fruition right here and right now. We live with hope that God truly is doing a new thing, in our midst in this moment, and what was flat will be lifted high, and what was high will be made low. We live with hope that there will be streams in the desert and a way made in the wilderness.

We live with hope, and so we wait. But while we wait, we are engaged fully in the here and now. While we wait, we live as though every day will be our last. While we wait, we seek to imitate Jesus – in siding with the poor and the oppressed and the marginalized, in speaking truth to power, in doing justice and walking in righteousness and in deepening our relationship with God and with ALL of God’s children.

We are a waiting people. We are a hopeful people. We do not know the day nor the hour, and we don’t have to. God does. So, we wait and we hope and live as disciples right here and right now, and trust that the future is in God’s hands. Those are pretty good hands to be in. We wait and we trust that our waiting will not be in vain.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.